


Truth or Dare: A Christmas Story

by SNQA



Category: Homeland
Genre: Advent Calendar 2017, F/M, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-17 20:17:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13084569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SNQA/pseuds/SNQA
Summary: 'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the surveillance truck,Carrie and Quinn are playing truth or dare and they might even fuck!ADVENT CALENDAR: DECEMBER 21





	Truth or Dare: A Christmas Story

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> This takes place late season 2/beginning of season 3, however, the bombing of the CIA never took place. So Brody is a free man and David Estes is alive. They are still after Javadi, but there’s no secret plan between Saul and Carrie.

Leaving the dark and moonless night sky behind, she opens the door of the large truck with her ungloved hand, the cold metal of the handle on her skin sending a shocking chill through her body. She climbs in reluctantly, happy to be getting out of the cold, the warm air inside a welcome relief, but the person inside, not so much.

 

After closing the door behind her, she takes in her surroundings — state-of-the-art monitors and computers, a mini fridge and microwave, and a long, cushioned bench opposite the console desk, perfect for a quick nap during the long night she’s about to endure. 

 

_ At least it’s the good truck.  _

 

Then there’s Quinn. He sits in front the monitors, his spine straight, the front of his brown hair in a controlled disarray of spikes, wearing a navy blue button down— the top two buttons casually left open. She studies his profile, noticing the slight cleft in his chin for the first time as the lights from the monitor create a shadow enhancing its depth. She runs her hand through her hair as she inhales deeply and sighs, realizing that her Christmas Eve and Christmas morning will be spent trapped alone in this sardine can with him — the one man who can get under her skin. The only person, other than Maggie, who can see through her bullshit and call her on it. 

 

“Hey,” she says with a slight tremble in her voice, not sure why her heart is suddenly racing.

 

“You’re late,” he says, turning his back to her, his eyes glued to the monitor in front of him. 

 

“I had to drop off my nieces’ Christmas presents. But I picked up some dinner. A turkey sandwich and pumpkin pie,” she smiles, pointlessly holding up the bag and waving it around.

 

“You couldn’t do that and still be on time?” he scoffs, adjusting the volume button on the console.

 

“You’re welcome,” she responds, rolling her eyes, her nervousness being replaced by annoyance. 

 

She sets the food down on the desk in front of him and sits down in the free chair, Quinn still not looking at her, swiveling his chair from side to side. 

 

“Max and Virgil were here?” she asks, as she hangs her purse over the back of her chair. 

 

“Yeah. Max left a bag for you.” He pivots to finally face her, his clear blue eyes penetrating hers as he points to the large brown bag in the corner of the truck with her name on it. 

 

Carrie glances briefly at the bag, then back to Quinn. “So, anything happening with this?” her head motioning in the direction of the screen.

 

“Ah, no. Nothing. This is a total bullshit,” his voice terse as Carrie notices the slight twitch in his jaw indicating his frustration.

 

“What do you mean? David told me this guy was critical to getting Javadi,” she questions, her brow furrowing. 

 

“Read the report, Carrie. He’s a low level asset at best. And whoever is running him most likely knows we know, given the fact that no one has contacted him in the week since we’ve been here.”

 

“That’s not what David told me.”

 

“Well,  _ David _ hasn’t been sitting in this truck for a week straight.” He runs his hand through his hair, uncharacteristically fidgety for a paid and possibly former assassin. 

 

“Fuck! I’m giving up my Christmas for this?”

 

“Yup, Estes must really hate you,” Quinn says flatly as he takes a sip from the coffee cup on the desk. 

 

“Thanks. And what about you? He hates you, too?” 

 

“No, I’m here tonight because Estes hates  _ you _ ,” he deadpans, the sound of clinking dishes from the speakers the only sound in the room as Quinn looks back to the monitor. “I guarantee that after this dumb asshole eats his Christmas dinner, he’ll fuck his wife, watch a Christmas movie and sleep like a baby while we sit in this overheated closet.”

 

“Wow. You’re in a mood. What big plans are you giving up to be here? A hot date?”

 

“Actually, yes,” he says, his lips curling up just barely for the first time this evening.

 

“The ER nurse?”

 

“No, a super hot podiatrist.”

 

“Sounds special,” Carrie smirks as she tucks an errant strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

 

“She’s a doctor, Carrie.”

 

“For feet! How’d you meet her? Did you have an ingrown toenail or something?

 

“No. Max set me up. My feet are perfect.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes, really. She says I have, and I quote, ‘exquisite arches.’”

 

“No, I meant that Max fixed you up? Since when are the two of you besties?” she asks, nodding her head, trying to shake off the sudden feeling of betrayal that’s confounding her at the moment.

 

“Since I helped him get a date with Fara, the new analyst. What about you, Carrie? You missing a night of boning Brody for this?” Their eyes meet for what seems like an eternity before Carrie, her face expressionless, breaks the contact and gets up from the chair, moving to the other side of the truck and sitting on the bench next to the bag that Max had left for her. 

 

“It’s really warm in here.” She rises again, this time to remove her winter coat and blazer, leaving just a thin, white tank top. She places her clothes on the hook on the wall next to the fridge. 

 

“So, can I have that sandwich? It’s better than the can of tuna I brought,” Quinn asks, turning to her as she sits; her smooth, white skin on her now exposed arms reflecting the overhead lights.

 

“Sure. I brought it for you.”

 

“You don’t want any?”

 

“No, I had a salad at my sister’s. I’m a vegetarian, anyway.”

 

“You don’t eat meat?” His eyebrows rise up before muttering under his breath, “That’s a disappointment.” He unwraps the sandwich and takes a large bite. “It’s good. Thanks,” he smiles earnestly after swallowing it down. 

 

They spend the next hour in silence, watching the domestic scene slowly unfolding on the screen; watching and listening in as the middle aged couple makes boring small talk while eating and then cleaning the kitchen.

 

“I need a break. What’s in the bag?” Quinn asks, standing up and stretching out his back; his head just barely clearing the ceiling of the truck. 

 

“Huh? Oh, right.” 

 

Carrie puts her hand in the bag and pulls out a small Christmas tree, setting it down on top of the mini fridge. 

 

Quinn rolls his eyes, “Fucking Max. Does it light up?”

 

Carrie finds the small switch on the battery pack and turns it on — the tree’s colorful lights blinking, blending in with the rest of the lights from the surveillance equipment. 

 

“Great. More blinking lights. Thanks, Max,” Quinn’s voice acerbic. “Anything else?”

 

Carrie reaches her hand back into the bag. “I think you’ll like this one better,” she grins, pulling out the bottle of liquor and holding it out to him. 

 

“Fucking Max!” His lips curl up as he takes the bottle from Carrie and reads the label. “Well, it’s not whiskey, but it’ll do. Grab two cups. In the cabinet next the fridge.”

 

“We’re drinking now? On a job?”

 

“Fuck, yeah. It’s Christmas Eve. You like tequila?” 

 

“I do. Not as much as vodka, but… well... it  _ is _ a holiday, so… fuck it. Why not,” Carrie rationalizes, grabbing two mugs from the cabinet as Quinn sits down next to her on the bench, opens up the bottle and pours a healthy shot of the smooth, golden liquid into each of the mugs while Carrie holds them out in front of him.

 

“And look at that,” Quinn’s eyes going back to the monitor after taking one mug from her. “Right on time.”

 

Quinn rises and returns to his chair, placing the mug and bottle down in front of him and turns up the volume from the dial on the console; the sounds of kissing and soft moans filling the truck. 

 

Carrie moves back to her chair, turning to Quinn with her mug held up, “Merry fucking Christmas,” she laughs, as Quinn lifts his mug in a mock toast before they both drink down their tequila. 

 

“So, I give him six minutes and thirty seconds,” he announces, grabbing the bottle and refilling their cups. 

 

“Really?” Carrie lifts her brow. “I’m thinking he can go longer. I say fifteen,” she retorts, leaning back in her chair, finally feeling at ease.

 

“Fifteen? I’m thinking this guy gets laid four times a year, at best. There’s no way he’s going to last that long — that requires practice.”

 

“He’s middle aged, Quinn. He probably has to take Viagra just to get it up.”

 

“Care to make a wager?” 

 

“Hmmm,” she presses her lips together, “what are the stakes?”

 

“I win, we play a drinking game of my choosing.”

 

“And if I win?”

 

“Well, what do you want, Carrie?” he tilts his head, his voice low and husky. 

 

Carrie loses her train of thought as she feels the warmth rising up through her body, knowing it’s not the tequila that is now turning her cheeks pink.

 

“Uh, fine. If I win… you buy me dinner the next time we work late together.”

 

“Really? That’s all? Okay, kinda boring but I accept. Not that it matters because I’m gonna win,” he gives her a cocky smile, his dimples showing. “Closest to the right time wins starting when he actually starts fucking her. Which I think is... now.”

 

Quinn presses a button on the console that starts a timer, as they both watch and listen, the deep moans coming from the speaker get louder and faster, then quickly taper off.

 

“Four minutes and fifty-one seconds,” Quinn gloats, turning the volume back down.

 

“Fuck. What an asshole! He didn’t even make her come,” she nods her head. “That’s just poor sex etiquette.”

 

“Well, look at the guy. He probably doesn’t even know where her clit is.”

 

“Quinn!” 

 

“Just sayin’.”

 

Carrie snorts, “and you’ve never had that problem before? Making a woman come, that is.”

 

“No, Carrie. Never. I know exactly where it is and how it works. I can prove it to you if you like,” he jests, his voice husky as he stares at her intensely.

 

Carrie gives him an exaggerated eye roll. “So, what’s the game?” she asks, clearing her throat. 

 

“Truth or Dare.”

 

“You’re kidding, right? What are we, twelve? And that’s not even a drinking game.”

 

“Drinking isn’t a requirement, but it’ll definitely make the game more interesting.”

 

“Fine,” she concedes, shooting down her second shot of tequila. 

 

“Rules. If you don’t want to answer the truth question, then you can forgo it and get a dare instead or vice versa. Got it?” he asks, not waiting for her answer. “Good. I’ll start. Truth.”

 

“Shit. Okay,” Carrie says, a little flustered. “Is Peter Quinn your real name?” 

 

“No. Now you go.”

 

“What? That’s it? Just ‘no’? I don’t even get a follow up question?” 

 

“You asked. I answered. Now it’s your turn. Truth or dare, Carrie?” 

 

She sighs in resignation, “Fine. Truth.”

 

“Are you still fucking Brody?”

 

“Wow, that was fast. Why do you want to know?” she deflects, her eyes narrowing as she glares in his direction.

 

“I don’t think you understand how this game works, Carrie. It’s your turn to answer, not ask.”

 

She purses her lips and inhales sharply, “No, I’m not. We broke up. Your turn.” 

 

“I’m not drunk enough for a dare, so I’ll go with truth.”

 

He grabs the bottle and refills their cups once again, then they both shoot back the liquid.

 

“What is your real name?”

 

“I can’t answer that — it’s classified; above your pay grade. Ask something else.”

 

“What the fuck, Quinn? That wasn’t part of the rules.”

 

“It’s necessary though, don’t you think? We both know things that we could be imprisoned, or worse, for disclosing. Just relax and go with it,” he grins.

 

“This game sucks. Fine. Can you answer this — I  _ know _ you aren’t really an analyst, or at least you weren’t… before…”

 

“Is there a question, here?” he snarks, his brows raised.

 

“I’m getting to it. Give me a chance,” she grumbles. “Anyway, why did you give up your… previous line of work?”

 

“Who says I have?” he runs his hand through his hair and presses his lips together, his jaw twitching rapidly.

 

“Well, you’re here. Not working for Dar Adal as an assassin anymore,” she pauses, tilting her head just slightly, “right?” 

 

Quinn’s body stiffens as he glances into her eyes; his blue eyes turning dark, “Right. I… I killed someone that…” he shifts his body uneasily as his eyes move down, then back to hers, “that I didn’t mean to kill. A kid. It was an accident.” He lowers his head and inhales deeply, unable to hide the pain on his face.

 

Not expecting the answer he gives her and feeling some regret in even asking, Carrie fights her urge to touch his hand and instead drinks what’s left in her mug and pours them both refills. 

 

“I’m sorry, Quinn. Really,” she says. “But I’m glad you quit. You’re good. You’re a good analyst,” she smiles at him after he lifts his head and nods.

 

“Thanks. You’re good, too. Excellent, actually,” he smiles back at her,  “Your turn.” 

 

“I think I’m gonna go with a dare this time,” she laughs, the alcohol doing its job as she enjoys the feeling of lightness in her head and the warmth in her body.

 

The sound of a phone ringing coming from the speaker startles them, as they both quickly spring into action. 

 

“Quinn, you got it?” Carrie’s voice calm and even, “Who’s the caller?”

 

“Hi, Mom. Merry Christmas,” the asset says as he answers his phone. 

 

Carrie exhales and leans back in her chair. “Yeah, definitely bullshit,” she smiles at Quinn. 

 

Quinn stands up and grabs the bottle and his cup and slowly moves to the bench, sitting down with the both items resting in his lap. “So you want a dare? You sure?” he questions, a glint in his eye making Carrie hesitate before answering.

 

“I’m not, but go ahead,” she says before grabbing her cup and moving next to him on the bench.

 

“I dare you to…” he pauses, scanning her body, as Carrie feels a jolt of excitement moving through her. “I dare you to call any one of your past boyfriends, lovers… anyone that you’ve fucked in the past, let’s say, two years, and tell him he was a lousy lay. Bonus points if it’s Brody.”

 

“Bonus points? What does that mean?” 

 

“That means you get to skip a turn.”

 

“You’re just making this up as you go, aren’t you?”

 

“Maybe,” he laughs. 

 

“So even if that person wasn’t a lousy lay?” 

 

“Sure. The truth is irrelevant here.”

 

“Fine. Can I leave a message on his voicemail or do I have to speak with him directly?”

 

“Either.”

 

“Okay, then.” Carrie gets out her phone from her pants pocket and shakes her head. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

 

She dials his number, holding the phone up to her ear.

 

“Put him on speaker, so I know you’re really calling him.”

 

Carrie presses the speaker button and stands up, nervously pacing back and forth waiting for Brody to answer; silently praying it goes to his voicemail. 

 

“Hi. This is Brody. Leave a message.” Carrie breathes a big sigh of relief, then waits for the tone. 

 

“Hi. It’s me… Carrie,” her voice trembling. “I’m just calling to say…” she looks over at Quinn who is somehow keeping a straight face. “... to tell you… that… you were a lousy lay,” she finally blurts out, “and... Merry Christmas,” she hangs up the phone before breaking into a fit of giggles. 

 

“Nicely done. I’m impressed,” Quinn snickers, making Carrie laugh even harder.

 

“Fuck. I’m really drunk,” Carrie staggers back over to the bench and plops down next to Quinn; so close their thighs just barely touch. 

 

She takes a deep breath in and glances at Quinn, their eyes meeting for several seconds before Carrie looks away. But she feels it. That tug. That magnetic pull towards him. And she wonders if he feels it too. 

 

“Your turn. Truth or dare?” she asks, clearing her throat as she looks back at him, shifting her body away from him so they are no longer touching. 

 

“Truth,” he grins, Carrie gets lost for a moment in his eyes, in his smile, in the creases around his eyes and those dimples...

 

_ Fuck, he’s beautiful.  _

 

“Carrie?”

 

“Oh, right. Okay,” she stutters. “Why did Estes bring you in on the Abu Nasir case?” 

 

Quinn cocks his head slightly, Carrie can see the twitch returning to his jaw. 

 

“You really don’t know?” he asks shaking his head, his voice low.

 

“Well, I think I do. But I guess I just want to hear you say it.” 

 

She holds her breath waiting for his answer — confirming what she already suspects. 

 

“Does it really matter now?” 

 

“Yes. I think I deserve to know.”

 

Quinn hesitates, inhales sharply, then fills his cup with another shot of tequila, drinking it down immediately. 

 

“Brody,” he says quietly, his eyes fixed on his cup, unable to look at her face. 

 

“Who ordered it? Was it Estes?”

 

“Carrie, I can’t answer that,” Quinn replies, his voice earnest. 

 

“Fine,” she huffs in frustration. “Why didn’t it happen? I get two questions, right?” 

 

“Because... _ I _ decided it wasn’t necessary. Brody had already kept his end of the deal. There was no threat anymore.”

 

“You decided? That’s the only reason? And you were able to convince, whoever, to call it off?” she asks, her voice softer now, touching him for the first time to lift his chin; her eyes meeting his. 

 

“Yes,” he lies. “And that was at least three questions.” She pulls her hand away abruptly, still feeling the heat from his skin on her fingers. 

 

“Why’d you break up, Carrie?” he presses her.

 

“Jesus, Quinn. Can you give me a chance to process this?” Carrie stands up and begins to pace back and forth again, her emotions all of over the map as she runs her hand through her hair. 

 

“So Brody is alive because of you? Fuck.”

 

“Does that bother you? That is was me?” 

 

“No... I don’t know,” she shakes her head, her eyes closing as she tries to understand the complexity of the situation. 

 

“I kill bad guys, Carrie… and, Brody, well, he’d been punished enough already.” 

 

Quinn rises up, standing in front of Carrie, his hand reaching out to touch her shoulder. “Why did you break up with him, Carrie?” he calmly repeats his question. “It’s not too late, you know. I can still take him out if you want,” Quinn smiles.

 

Carrie laughs, her eyes moist, fighting back tears for one man she no longer loves and another man that maybe she could... something.

 

“It wasn’t like that, Quinn. There were just too many lies between us. We played each other too many times. I don’t know. It just didn’t feel right. Does that make sense?”

 

“It does.”

 

“Anyway, I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

 

“Because that’s the game,” he smiles again, finally letting his hand drop down by his side; Carrie already missing the contact. “And because you trust me.”

 

She studies his face, trying to assess the validity of his statement. He’s an enigma to her — one moment hard, difficult, critical, and the next caring and tender. But from the very beginning, she realizes, she trusted him — instinctively knowing that this man wouldn’t hurt her. Unlike Brody — Quinn would risk his life to protect hers. 

 

“Yeah, I do, oddly enough.” 

 

Quinn grabs the tequila bottle and refills their cups. 

 

“Well, I’d say I’m sorry, about you... and Brody, that is, but I’m not. Here,” he says, handing her cup to her. 

 

“Thanks, I think,” she responds, shooting the tequila back. 

 

“He probably was a lousy lay.” 

 

“Quinn!” Carrie coughs and laughs simultaneously, the tequila partially coming out of her mouth.

 

“Joke. But was he?”

 

“He was...fine.”

 

“Sure,” Quinn says, looking away, trying to suppress grin.  “Anyway, my turn, right?”

 

“Maybe we should check on the asset?”

 

Quinn turns to the monitor, then back to Carrie who is distractedly wiping the tequila off of the front of her shirt with her hand.

 

“Sleeping.”

 

“Well, It  _ was _ a whole four minutes,” she mocks, finally giving up on the faint yellow stain that covers the right breast of her shirt.

 

Quinn snorts, then takes a swig of his drink. “Dare.”

 

“Hmmm. Really? Interesting.”

 

“It’s late. I’m buzzed. You got something in mind?”

 

Quinn sits down in front of the monitor and swivels the chair to face Carrie who is now sitting on the bench.

 

“Okay, I got one. You call Dar Adal and go tell him to go fuck himself.”

 

“Uh, no. Pass,” he shakes his head, his voice flat. 

 

“Really? You’re afraid of Dar?”

 

“It’s not that I’m afraid of him, it’s more that I’d like to be alive and intact to see the new year,” 

 

Quinn scratches his head then continues, “I know he may seem like a kind, old grandfather spreading joy and donuts to the CIA, but there’s a good chance he’s actually the devil.” Carrie remains silent, not knowing what to make of Quinn’s fear of his former boss; feeling a pang of sadness and pity for the life he might have had before. 

 

“Yeah... well...”

 

“And here I thought you were beginning to like me and wouldn’t want to see me dead. Maimed, maybe, but not dead,” he says quietly, his mouth twitching up in a half smile; briefly glancing down then back to Carrie, his eyes soft and questioning.

 

Carrie laughs and looks at him intently, hearing the flicker of vulnerability in his statement, seeing it in his face, even through her drunken haze. 

 

And it happens again — that tug, that unexpected pull towards him. Maybe it’s the alcohol or once again feeling alone and wanting to connect with someone. But it’s also him. The way he looks at her and just the way he looks — so fucking gorgeous it takes her breath away sometimes. 

 

She shakes it off once again, or at least tries to. 

 

“Well, you are rather likable, so maybe just slightly maimed, not in any of the vital areas, of course,” she says tilting her head coyly. 

 

“Thanks. Good to know. You have another dare for me?”

 

“Hmm, I do. I want to shave you. Your beard or whatever that clump of hair growing out of your chin is called.”

 

“You don’t like it?” he asks, his eyebrows furrowing, feigning offense. 

 

“I do. I’m just curious to see what you look like without it. And the barely there mustache, too.” 

 

“Okay,” he nods with a chuckle. “But unless you carry a razor with you…”

 

“Don’t you have your pocket knife on you?”

 

“The one I stabbed your ex with?”

 

“Yeah, that one.”

 

“You want to shave me with a pocket knife? You do want me maimed, don’t you?”

 

Quinn stands and pulls the knife out of his front pocket, handing it to Carrie. 

 

“We’ll need some kind of, uh, lubricant,” Quinn suggests, his lips pursed, rubbing the hair on his chin with concern. “And I definitely need another drink.”

 

Carrie hesitates, thinking. “I know. Whipped cream! From the pumpkin pie.”

 

She leans over and pulls a bag out the the fridge while Quinn grabs a hand towel, running some warm water over it from the tap. 

 

“Where do you want me?”

 

“Uh, here. Your head on my lap.”

 

Carrie shifts her body to the side, while Quinn lies down across the bench, resting his head in her lap. 

 

She smiles down on him, their eyes meeting, “Trust me?”

 

“I trust you.”

 

Carrie retrieves the pie out of the bag, unwraps it, scooping the whipped cream off the top, lightly applying it to his chin. 

 

She laughs, then licks her fingers, “Mmm, good. Try,” she insists, swiping some of the cream off his chin, then touching it to his lips. He opens his mouth, just enough, so that Carrie can place her finger inside, Quinn gently sucking the cream, his eyes never leaving hers. 

 

She pauses momentarily before pulling her finger away, realizing that for better or worse, she’s made her decision. 

 

“Carrie…” he breathes, his face turning dark with desire.

 

“Hold still,” she demands, bringing the knife close to his chin, hovering over him, her hand trembling.

 

She swipes his chin with the knife, just scraping off some of the whipped cream without actually touching his skin with the blade, then stops. “I can’t,” she admits, lowering the knife, then folding it back up and handing it to Quinn. 

 

Quinn sits up, uses the towel to wipe the cream off of his face. 

 

“What can’t you do, Carrie?” he asks, his voice taut, his eyes searching hers, “Tell me.” 

 

“I’m wearing white. I don’t need a blood stain,” she fakes a smile, not sure how much he realizes; how much he can see in her eyes. 

 

Quinn stares at her, contemplating, a puzzled look on his face; several tense seconds passing by before he’s able to speak again. “Well, then how about you? I dare you to let me shave _ you _ ,” he finally says, his voice low and controlled, a devilish smile crossing his lips.

 

“I don’t have a beard, Quinn,” she deadpans.

 

“That’s not —”

 

“I know what you meant, Quinn,” she interrupts, the tension between them thick and hot. “I’m clean-shaven,...waxed, actually _ …Completely _ .”

 

“Holy fuck,” he mutters, swallowing hard, frozen in place. 

 

“Aren’t you going to dare me? To show you? Isn’t that what this game’s been all about?” she asks with a modulated voice, already knowing the answer; sensing her own control over the situation and over him.

 

“I...I dare you,” he rasps, his face stoic. 

 

Carrie stands up and turns to face him, stepping out of her shoes, unbuttoning her pants, and slowly pulling them down before stepping out of them. After pausing for a moment, she places her hands on the elastic of her panties.

 

“Are you sure?” he asks, a slight quiver in his voice. 

 

“Yes.”

 

“May I?” he motions towards her, his brows raised. 

 

“Yes,” she whispers again. 

 

He moves from the bench to kneel in front of her, his hands replacing hers on her panties. 

 

With her heart racing, she watches as he slowly lowers them to the floor, helping her to lift up one foot at a time, and placing the black, lacy underwear on the floor next to him.

 

He rises as his hands methodically brush up against the skin of her calves, then her thighs, then her hips.  He lingers there, his eyes wide, dark, studying what’s in front of them with absolute attention and ardor, arousing her further; causing her breath to hitch and making her wet beyond belief.

 

Standing before her, he slides his hands up her waist, grabbing the edges of her shirt and carefully lifting it up and off over her head. 

 

“Truth, Quinn. How long have you wanted to fuck me?” she breathes.

 

“Since the day we met. And every day since, I’ve thought about this...your skin under my hands… Being inside you...Your face when I made you come. And Carrie, I _ will _ make you come.”

 

He reaches behind her back, easily unclasping her bra with one quick motion, letting it fall down between them; his one hand slides around her, barely starting to touch her breast, her nipple, while his other hand travels down, slowly, until reaching her smooth mound.

 

“Spread your legs for me,” he commands, his voice hoarse with desire and she immediately obeys, as he slowly slips one finger, then another inside of her.

 

“Oh, god, Quinn,” she moans, as he languorously moves them in and out of her, his thumb grazing her clit, while his other hand remains on her nipple, pinching it a little harder now. 

 

Quinn’s focus remains on her pussy, watching his fingers moving faster, his own breathing loud and heavy. 

 

“Truth, Carrie,” he finally lifts his head, their eyes meeting. “Tell me the truth,” he instructs, his voice controlled and demanding. 

 

“Okay,” she rasps.

 

“Say it.”

 

“I want you.”

 

“For how long? How long have you wanted me?” he asks, his fingers still moving inside of her. 

 

“I don’t know. I...oh, god,” she stutters, “I just know I want you now. So fucking much.”

 

Not able to wait any longer, her hands move to his shirt, proficiently unbuttoning it; his hands regretfully leaving her body, in order to assist her. 

 

He leans in to finally kiss her deep and urgent, his fingers running through her hair as she fumbles with his belt, removing it, then together lowering his pants and boxers to the floor. 

 

Her hand goes immediately to his cock as soon as he’s stepped out of his clothing, feeling it large, hard and throbbing in her hand — hearing  _ him _ moan now. 

 

“I promise to make you come too, Quinn,” she whispers, smiling, as he lowers her to the bench, the cool leather a welcome feeling on her back. 

 

“Fuck, Carrie, I hope I can last more than four minutes,” he says before climbing on top of her. 

 

As he drops his head down, his mouth desperately finds her nipple, sucking and scraping it with his teeth as she arches into him, her fingernails digging into his back. 

 

Carrie wraps her legs around his waist, positioning herself against him, intense desire surging through her body as she rubs herself up and down his cock. 

 

Quinn lifts his head and finds her lips again, his hand coming up to gently caress her cheek. 

 

He enters her slowly, pushing in as deep as he can, then just stays there, his body motionless as he breaks away from her lips and gazes into her eyes. 

 

This is different than what Carrie had imagined; he’s different. All the urgency dissipating in that moment, leaving behind a tender connection. Still erotic as fuck, but also more. They aren’t just fucking, they’re making love.  

 

“Quinn,” she whispers his name, as she touches his cheek gently, lifting her head slightly to reach his lips for a soft, lingering kiss.

 

As if reading her mind, he begins to thrust into her, slow, controlled, hitting Carrie exactly in the right spot; Carrie already close to coming. 

 

He increases the pace — just a little, going deeper; Carrie moaning and Quinn grunting with each thrust.

 

Lifting himself up so that he’s hovering above her, he moves his hand in between them, circling her clit with his fingers while continuing to pump into her, his head tilted down now, watching their connection.

 

“Oh, god, Quinn,” she calls out, her entire body beginning to writhe and shudder with pleasure.

 

His mouth finds her nipple again, her hands now holding his head tightly to her breast as she comes, so hard, feeling the rush surging through her as she loses all control; lost in a state of utter rapture. 

 

“Did you finish?” Quinn asks, breathless, a self-satisfied smile across his lips as he gradually slows, then stop his frenetic pace; Quinn’s voice snapping her back into conscious thought. 

 

“Jesus, Quinn!” she gasps, “That was... Do you really have to ask?”

 

“Just making sure,” he leans down to kiss her, softly. “Do you mind if I …” Quinn motions downward with his head and smiles. 

 

He doesn’t wait for her to answer and he’s back at it — thrusting into her hard and fast. Carrie places her hands on his firm ass, pushing him deeper, rocking her hips in countermotion to his; her body craving more of him, triggered, feeling like she may come again. And the noises Quinn starts to make — the sounds of him coming completely undone are so erotic, it pushes her right over the edge again. 

 

A few more hard thrusts and then he comes; loud and violent and unhindered, spilling into her before collapsing his body onto hers.

 

They remain intertwined for several minutes, neither moving, Carrie relishing the feel of Quinn’s weight on her body, his cheek touching hers, their breathing in perfect sync as they both enjoy their contentment.

 

“Well you lasted longer than four minutes,” Carrie says, breaking the silence. 

 

Quinn laughs, harder than Carrie has ever heard him laugh, causing him to slip out of her.

 

_ Too soon _ , Carrie thinks to herself. 

 

“Yeah, but it was definitely under fifteen,” he responds, lifting himself off of her with a grunt. 

 

He sorts through the piles of clothing on the floor, putting on his boxers and finding her panties and bra, placing them next to her while she lays motionless. Then, reaching above her, he pulls out a fleece blanket from the cabinet, carefully unfolds it and uses it to gently cover her naked body.

 

He leans down and kisses her softly on her cheek. “It’s snowing,” he whispers in her ear, “Why don’t you get some sleep? I’ll keep watch.”

 

She smiles up at him, too tired and spent to debate the matter, then closes her eyes, quickly finding a peaceful sleep. 

 

——————

 

Carrie’s eyes flicker open four hours later, feeling refreshed and relaxed, without any trace of a hangover amazingly enough.

 

It takes a minute or so but soon, piece by piece, the events of the previous evening start to sequentially drift back into her consciousness. Quinn being a dick because she was late. Max’s Christmas tree and the tequila. The bet. Lots of tequila. The game. Opening up to Quinn about Brody. The whip cream. The dare.

 

_ Fuck!  _

 

Hoping it was just a pleasant, yet unbelievably physically satisfying dream, she lifts up the blanket, just enough to look underneath it, confirming what she fears had happened. 

 

_ Fuck! _

 

Thoughts race through her head — how did she let this happen? With Quinn! The assassin who was sent to kill her lover. Well,  _ former _ assassin and  _ former _ lover. He’s completely arrogant. But... he’s also reliable and trustworthy. And can be sweet and attentive. He  _ was _ the only person who believed her, respected her and didn’t judge her because of her illness. And last night, she saw a whole new side of him. He was compassionate and vulnerable. And the sex. The sex! Two of the most intense orgasms she’s ever had. And she’d be lying to herself if she didn’t admit he’s hot as fuck. His face! His body! Just thinking about all of this was sending a chill down her spine and making her wet again. 

 

She inhales deeply, trying to reconnect with the logical side of her brain to plot out a strategy. She’s had plenty of one night stands, so why does this one feel different? Does she act cool and pretend it never happened? Or just act like it was no big deal. Which it wasn’t. Was it? 

 

_ Think, Mathison _ . 

 

First things first, she needs to look at him. She turns her head slowly— he’s sitting in front of the monitors, headphones on, doing something on his phone. He’s distracted — good. 

 

Next, she needs to find her clothes. Done. She spots her pants and shirt hanging neatly over the other chair and her bra and panties on the bench besides her. 

 

She carefully puts her panties on, doing her best to keep covered up. The bra is a little more of a challenge, but she handles it skillfully. Getting the rest of her clothes on before Quinn notices, though, will be nearly impossible. 

 

She closes her eyes and tries to calm her racing mind. Then, sitting up with the blanket wrapped under her arms, she stretches out to try and reach the clothing from the chair — trying not to attract Quinn’s attention — not wanting to have to deal with him while she’s still half naked. 

 

She reaches further, finally snatching her clothes, Quinn turning to face her now. 

 

“Hey. You sleep okay?” he asks, his voice soft and kind. 

 

“Yeah. I did. Thanks — for letting me sleep.  Do you want to sleep? I can keep watch,” Carrie responds awkwardly, gripping the blanket a little tighter against her body.

 

“No. I’m used to all-nighters. Plus our replacements will be here in about an hour.”

 

“Okay. Right.”

 

“So you better get dressed… Unless you want to go for a quickie,” Quinn gives her a cocky smile, their eyes meeting. 

 

Carrie can feel the blood rushing south, as the image of Quinn bending her over the console flashes before her eyes; his hands roughly pulling down her panties, then entering her from behind — thrusting into her with all of his might. 

 

“I...I —”she stutters, her cheeks turning warm and pink. 

 

“Joke, Carrie.” Quinn smile fades as he swivels his chair back to the monitor, turning his attention back to his phone.

 

Carrie quickly gets dressed, then sits in the chair next to Quinn, who is still engrossed in whatever he’s doing on his phone. 

 

“So, did I miss anything?”

 

“Nope. Not a thing.”

 

“What are you playing,” she asks, peeking over to try and get a glimpse of what’s on his screen. 

 

“Words with Friends.”

 

“You have friends? I thought it would be something like Call of Duty.”

 

“I lived that. I don’t need to play the game version.”

 

“Oh, right.”

 

“By the way, you got some texts while you were sleeping,” he motions over to her phone that’s in front of her on the console.

 

Carrie swiftly picks up the phone, typing in her password and sees five new text messages. Brody. 

 

“Shit. Shit!” She looks over at Quinn, her eyes widened, “I called Brody last night, didn’t I.”

 

“You did.”

 

“I told him he was a lousy lay.”

 

“You did. And he seems pretty pissed about it.”

 

“You read my texts?!”

 

“Your phone was buzzing and you have it set to show messages on your locked screen.”

 

“Quinn!” she huffs, subsequently adding nosy and intrusive to her mental list of cons. 

 

She glances at her phone, scanning each message, then reading them aloud: “Wtf, Carrie. Are you drunk? Real mature. Fuck you, Carrie. You give a lousy blowjob.”

 

“That last one…harsh. But I’m _ sure  _ not accurate,” Quinn teases.

 

“Well you’ll never know,” she snaps back at him. “I can’t believe you made me do that.”

 

“I  _ made _ you? It was a dare, Carrie. For a game that  _ you _ agreed to play. And you got bonus points out of it, so quit complaining.”

 

“Bonus points. Right. All I got from you were more lies and excuses about why you had to lie,” she accuses, her voice shrill, her face flushed in anger. 

 

“That’s not true, Carrie. I told you about Brody.” Quinn says through his clenched jaw. 

 

“What did you tell me that I didn’t know? Nothing. And why didn’t you kill him? Huh? Because you felt sorry for him? All of the sudden you have a conscience? You gained some kind of higher morality because you killed some kid by accident?” she seethes, her eyes narrowing into two thin slits.

 

She knew immediately that she went too far. He had confided in her. Trusted her. With something deep and traumatic and she threw it back in his face without regard. And she knew that whatever vile insult he would throw back at her, she’ll deserve it. 

 

“No, I killed the kid after I decided  _ not _ to take out your lover. I refused to kill Brody because of you, Carrie. I didn’t want to hurt  _ you _ ,” he replies calmly, but his face unable to mask the pain she caused him. 

 

Their eyes remain locked, almost like another contest, this time to see who will blink first; Carrie the loser again as she looks away, filled with massive regret.

 

“Quinn,” she mumbles, gazing back at him. There’s so much she wants to say, but the words all get caught in her throat. “I’m....”

 

The door of the truck creaks open, Max sticking his head in first, taking a quick look around, then entering cautiously, sensing the tension in the room.

 

“Hey, guys. How’d it go last night? Any... action?” Max smiles as Quinn quickly stands up, grabbing his coat from the back of his chair.

 

“Nope. No action at all,” Quinn responds going over to Max, his hand extended.

 

“Sorry to hear that,” Max says. “I mean, it must have been a boring night.” He takes Quinn’s hand, giving it a firm shake. 

 

“Extremely.”

 

Max looks at Carrie and then back to Quinn — the hopeful look in his eyes that he came in with, evaporated.

 

“It’s snowing, in case you didn’t notice. And the roads are pretty slick.”

 

“We’ll be fine. My SUV is parked in the garage across the street.”

 

“Oh, fuck,” Carrie’s silence finally broken. “I parked on the street.”

 

“I can help you dig out, Carrie,” Max volunteers. “It may take a while though. They plowed already and all the parked cars are pretty much buried.”

 

“I can take her home,”Quinn offers, his focus still on Max.

 

“Yeah, thanks. That would be great,” Carrie accepts reluctantly.

 

“I’ll bring the truck around and pick you up,” Quinn tells her, now glancing over in her direction, “You’re not exactly dressed for the weather.”

 

“Merry Christmas,” Quinn nods to Max, then climbs out of the truck, quickly vanishing into the bright, early morning light. 

 

“So,” Max moves closer to Carrie as she begins to gather her belongings. “How did it  _ really _ go last night?” he asks, his eyebrows raised.

 

“It was fine. Boring. Just like we said,” Carrie replies, puzzled, her voice flat. 

 

“I thought with the tree, and the booze and it being Christmas, that maybe, the two of you… would...,” Max hesitates, hoping not to have to say the actual words.

 

“What?!”

 

“Hook up.”

 

“Why would you think that? Why would you  _ want  _ that?” Carrie hisses, abruptly stopping putting her coat on to turn to Max.

 

“I… well, you guys clearly have some serious UST. Everyone sees it. And you’re my friend. And he’s my friend. And he’s a good guy, Carrie. Really. I know he acts like a dick sometimes, but he’s not. And he really cares about you.”

 

“UST? That sounds like some kind of sexually transmitted disease.”

 

“Unresolved sexual tension.”

 

“Oh. And why do you think he cares?”

 

“Because it’s completely obvious — to everyone but you. It amazes me how you can be so perceptive when it comes to work, but totally oblivious when it comes to your personal life.”

 

“Am I interrupting?” Fara asks climbing into the truck, wearing snow boots and a down coat, trying to kick the snow off of her boot on the edge of the bumper. 

 

“No,” Carrie says, giving Max a lopsided grin, “I was just leaving. Have a good shift, guys. And thanks, Max, for the presents. Merry Christmas.”

 

“Merry Christmas,” Max and Fara respond in unison. 

 

As Carrie turns to leave the truck she sees Quinn outside the door waiting for her. 

 

She smiles at him, trying to convey everything she suddenly feels in that moment with just the one look. 

 

“There’s about six inches out here. And you aren’t wearing boots.” 

 

He moves closer to her holding his arms outstretched, then picks her up by her waist, easily throwing her over his shoulder like she weighs nothing at all and carries her to the open SUV door. 

 

“Hey,” they hear Max call from the truck. “What happened to this pumpkin pie? The whipped cream’s all scraped off.”

 

Quinn sets her down in the passenger seat, both of them unable to help but laugh at their sweet, definitely not mute, friend and the sexy memory of the whipped cream. 

 

He climbs into the front seat, his eyes facing front, frozen. 

 

“Quinn. I’m so sorry,” she pleads, breaking the silence. “I didn’t mean what I said about… never giving you a blowjob,” she deadpans, then giving him a cautious smile.

 

He turns to her, smiling, his eyes crinkling, dimples showing, “yeah, well, it better be good,” he mocks, his voice husky.

 

“Oh it will be, Quinn. The truth is, I'll make you come in less than 4 minutes,” she laughs seductively.

 

“Deal. Let’s get you home.” 

 

“Merry Christmas, Quinn.” She leans over, feeling a little uncertain, and kisses him shyly. He quickly deepens the kiss, but keeps it soft and tender, then pulls away from her, their eyes meeting.

 

“Merry Christmas, Carrie.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to FrangipaniFlower and Leblanc1 for their help and friendship!


End file.
